Wanderers
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: For over three-hundred lives of Men he had walked the earth. Now, at last, he had time.


_A/N_

 _I've been reading the_ Shannara _books recently - I finished_ First King of Shannara _in 2015, and I've nearly finished_ Sword of Shannara _. The main crux is that I want to read_ Elfstones _in preparation for the MTV adaptation (granted it'll be ages before I'm able to see it, if at all), and...yeah, there's no getting around this. It's been called_ _"Lord of the Rings fanfiction" by its detractors, and reading_ Sword _, I can definately see the influences, even beyond the basics of storytelling in this genre. That said, I will give credit for its worldbuilding, how even if we have names like "Southland" and "Northland" (real original there Terry), the origins of the setting are at least interesting, even if I find myself reminded of_ Shadowrun _(even if that came after)._

 _So, with that aside, drabbled this up. Allanon is channeling both Gandalf and Arragorn, so figured I'd have some fun._

* * *

 **Wanderers**

The city was called Leah.

The traveller had seen many such places as he had walked this earth. Once, long ago, cities were constructed by elves and dwarves. Fortresses too, were built, marring the earth, from fair Gondolin, to finally Barad-dûr, cast down at the end of its age. And then, the cities of Men came, sprawling for hundreds of miles across the face of Arda. Ever wider, ever higher, age after age, as Man himself came close to undoing his gift. Still seen then, at the end of an age, as their curse.

Man had given his gift to himself in fire and fury. Man had laid his cities low, as they did the world. Once again the world was broken. Once again the world was forever changed. Rebuilt, in part. But as glories of the Elder Days would never be reached, so too were Man's works fated to crumble, and never be surpassed. To lie unmourned, and unremembered, lost before the end of all things.

And yet here he was. In Leah. The town of Leah in the kingdom of Leah, in the region of Shannara, in the realm of the Four Lands. In an inn of disrepute, smoking a pipe, of a plant long since lost from the world. This world, that he had re-entered, so different from how he left it.

"Hello friend."

Though the same, in many ways, as he looked at the man that sat down beside him. He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, and time's gears whirled behind his eyes.

"Why so call me this?" he asked.

The man grunted. "I know a wanderer when I see one. One who walks alone, even as the world turns around them."

"And how long as the world turned for you?"

"Long enough." The man took a sip of his grog. He winced. "Poison."

"Then why drink it so?"

"Because poison exists within the north. It is a poison that wants to infect the lands of the south, and start a new War of the Races." He took another sip. "This may be the last 'proper poison' I get to sample in a long time."

The wanderer puffed at his pipe. The man was old. But not so old that he was not willing to destroy his own body.

Smoking pipe-weed was completely different.

"The Warlock Lord," the wanderer mused. "I have heard his name uttered on the lips of Men."

"Then your ears are better than mine," the man said. "Already his name is but legend – lost along with the Shannara bloodline. Not completely, but as drops of blood are ever diluted, so too does history become legend."

"And legend myth," the wanderer intoned. He glanced at the man. "Such is the nature of time. You will learn this."

"What makes you think that I haven't already?"

The wanderer conceded the point, and for the first time, actually _looked_ at the one who called him friend. He wore black, yet carried none of the malice that was usually associated with such a colour. His voice was hoarse, yet strong. As was his body – all seven feet of him. The wanderer found himself reminded of another – one who spent much of his life in the wild. One he had called friend. One who had passed away more than age ago, such was the lifespan of Men, even those blessed by Númenor. Another name lost to time.

 _Who will remember Southland?_ He wondered. _Northland, Eastland, Westland…are the peoples of this time so bereft of creativity?_

It mattered not. Names changed, but the times remained the same. So this land was once again threatened by darkness. He had seen darkness fall, only to be reborn. Men themselves had provided dark lords of their own, in all but name. He would not interfere this time. He'd 'interfered' enough for a lifetime.

The one who called him friend rose. "Well," he said. "I must depart. Shady Vale awaits, as does the last hope for these lands."

"A quest, then," said the wanderer.

"If you want to call it that."

"Oh, I think I shall. And perhaps you should too. 'Quest' is such a good word for the trials and turmoil that awaits all those who embark on such a journey." He took a puff of his pipe. "Isn't that correct, Allanon, Son of Bremen, Last of the Druids?"

The man looked perturbed for a moment, before regaining his composure.

 _Strider. That was it._

"How know you my name?" he asked.

"I know many names," the wanderer said, getting to his feet. "I know them, for even as I am doomed to forget, I would seek to remember the departed for as long as this world bears my presence."

"I'm not departed yet."

"And yet part of you wishes it could be so. You wish that you could leave it to the races, and not guide them through the war that is to come." He put on his hat. "It does not get easier, my friend. But it is the burden of those like us – we, who linger, as the lights around us fade."

 _Aragorn. Frodo. Bilbo. Dear friends all._

And so he headed to depart. He'd had enough of this inn. He'd had enough of inns for a lifetime.

"At least give me the honour of your name," Allanon said. "For you remember mine."

And he stopped. And smiled. For the first time in an age.

"I have many names," he said. "Perhaps, one day, you shall give me one." He adjusted his cap. "But for now, I would prefer you call me by the one used by those closest. Those long gone." He closed his eyes – the Gift of Men. How he envied those who could just…leave it all. Beyond the Halls of Manos, to the place only Eru knew of.

"You may call me Gandalf."

It would be a long time before he saw them, he reflected, as he existed into Leah, of Leah, of the Southland, of the Four Lands, of Arda, the world.

A long time indeed.


End file.
